


death hath had no power yet

by violaceum_vitellina_viridis



Series: fire & powder [18]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Blood Magic, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Curse Breaking, Gen, Heavily Influenced by Fairytales, Magic, Minor Injuries, Ruthlessly Cherry-Picked Canon, Spy Jaskier | Dandelion, curse, minor blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:36:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis
Summary: Jaskier gets word from one of his contacts just as they reach the base of the mountain, a day’s travel from the nearest proper town. It comes in the form of an enchanted, ornery carrier pigeon – not a terribly common choice for messages, but not one he’s unfamiliar with.Roach nearlyeats it.Jaskier goes to see Yennefer, and asks a favor.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: fire & powder [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698274
Comments: 101
Kudos: 369





	1. chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey! up exactly a week after the end of the last (...entirely because Kate suggested it. i don't know what day it is like, ever).
> 
> there's two chapters to this one, but it is finished, so the next should go up on wednesday! (or thursday, if i forget.)

Jaskier gets word from one of his contacts just as they reach the base of the mountain, a day’s travel from the nearest proper town. It comes in the form of an enchanted, ornery carrier pigeon – not a terribly common choice for messages, but not one he’s unfamiliar with.

Roach nearly  _ eats it. _

“Fuck!” Jaskier shouts when he grabs the thing and turns just in time for Roach to chomp down on his arm instead of the poor bird. “ _ Roach! _ ”

Geralt chuckles, but there’s the glow of magic as he shifts his fingers, and Roach lets go of Jaskier’s arm with a small huff. “Behave, Roach,” Geralt murmurs, and gets a snort for it, but Roach doesn’t try to bite Jaskier again, or get at the pigeon still held in his palm.

Jaskier shouts again wordlessly when the  _ pigeon _ bites him, instead. He glares at the bird. It just turns one mean little beady eye at him and does it again.

“Fucking magic birds,” he mutters, finally letting go of the bird enough for it to flap up and perch – painfully, Jaskier might add – on his wrist. It thrusts out one of its little feet pointedly, and Jaskier unties the little piece of parchment, feeling irrationally scolded.

The parchment is small and rolled tightly. It takes a second for Jaskier to get it flattened out, careful not to rehydrate any of the ink with any oils or sweat from his palms.

“What is it?” Geralt asks, tying Roach’s reins loosely to a tree branch on the side of the road. She headbutts his shoulder but he ignores her.

“A note,” Jaskier answers redundantly. “Intelligence work.”

“Ah.” Geralt nods and doesn’t ask any further questions. Jaskier would thank him, but he’s busy decoding the message and hissing at the pigeon for biting him yet again.

It’s a familiar code, thankfully, and the blood-red ink tells him that it’s Lilia’s message. He hadn’t known she was one of the people working on this, but then again, he did just tell everyone he contacted to talk to whoever they thought best.

_ Mahakam. Meet in Ellander, The Smiling Bell – need a mage. _

Well. He supposes his planned meet up with Yennefer is convenient, then.

The pigeon pecks at him again and he swears at it. Geralt snorts and starts digging into Jaskier’s bag, silently handing him a quill as well as some parchment. The inkpot he sets on a little tree stump nearby with a gesture.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, around another hiss when the bird bites hard enough to draw blood this time. He crouches by the stump and quickly scrawls a reply. He gets bit and pecked a handful more times while he waits for the ink to dry, but finally manages to roll the note up and reattach it to the bird’s foot.

It gives him another mean look with its beady eyes, but finally flies off with his note, hopefully in whatever direction Lilia is.

“Does your intelligence work usually end in you bleeding?” Geralt asks, clearly amused as he trades Jaskier’s quill and ink for a pot of medicinal salve. Jaskier frowns and starts treating the little scratches and tears the bird left on his hand.

“Not usually,” he mutters. Geralt just snorts and takes the salve back as well.

* * *

He and Geralt split up once they reach the town. It’s a small place, but it has a three-room inn and a tiny tavern attached, and it’s a place adjusted to the sight of Witchers; Geralt is able to pick up some supplies as well as word of a few nearby hunts that he agrees to take before he returns to Kaer Morhen for a few more weeks.

Jaskier stays with him until he has to leave again. They share a surreptitious kiss hidden by the tiny stable and then Geralt is on his way, first to the outer edges of town to negotiate the price for those hunts, and then on to kill the monsters. As soon as he can no longer see the Witcher’s silhouette in the distance, he goes to the tiny inn to see about a room.

This early in the spring, there’s no one else staying here that doesn’t already live here, so he gets his pick of the three rooms. He chooses the one that smells the least like sheep and settles in for the night. It’s early, but this kind of place has no need for a bard, and he’s got to think of a plan for when he and Yenenfer go to Ellander. (Assuming she will go, though he can’t think of any reason she wouldn’t.)

Mahakam, though. That’s...worrisome, to say the least. It’s notoriously hard to gain entrance to the place, and sneaking in through the mountains is out because they’ll be killed on sight if caught. They’ll either have to gain the trust of someone who is already allowed to come and go freely – also notoriously difficult, as dwarves have learned to be cautious. Rightly so, of course, and Jaskier would die before implying that they don’t deserve their enclave to be safe.

However, it does make it significantly harder for him to find Renfri, assuming that Lilia and her network of contacts have good information, and Mahakam is an actual lead. There’s no reason it wouldn’t be a proper lead, but he does have to prepare for the possibility.

By the time it gets late enough that he can no longer avoid going to bed, he doesn’t have any further ideas on how they’ll get in. He hopes that maybe Yennefer will have some ideas, or maybe Lilia, once they arrive.

It’s all he can really do, right now.  _ Hope. _

* * *

He wakes with the sunrise, though unwillingly. He hadn’t realized when he chose his room the night before that the single window faces east. 

Rubbing his eyes against the light and to rid them of the crust of sleep, he sits up and fumbles for his journal. The note from Yennefer falls out and he grabs it, rereading just to check that he remembers how to activate the portal correctly. 

He does, but he figures that maybe lighting a portal charm on fire inside an inn room would be considered rude, so he stuffs the note back into his journal and sets to getting dressed. Once he’s ready to go, dressed and all of his things gathered, he stops by the local hedgewitch to procure something to start a fire with.

Sure, he technically knows how to do that without Geralt’s Signs, but it’s so much easier to use magic than stone. He waits until he’s an acceptable distance from the town, down the road by a few miles, before he pulls the note back out. 

It catches easily, and Jaskier places it on the ground so it won’t burn his fingers. The portal opens with a familiar magical  _ whoosh  _ as soon as the flames catch on Yennefer’s signature purple ink. Jaskeir takes a deep breath, making sure he has a secure hold on all of his things, and steps through.

He’s not sure of the distance he’s travelled, but it must be far, as he has to shake his head for a moment to clear the black from his vision when his feet finally find solid ground. “Yennefer?” he asks, just as his sight clears.

In front of him is a large, imposing wooden door. The hall he’s in is stone, and his voice echoes off of it strangely, sounding as if it’s coming from several directions at once. He ignores the way his hair stands and reaches out to the handle of the door, finding it unlocked. 

Despite the size and heaviness of the door, it moves silently, opening to reveal what is clearly some sort of laboratory. He sees Yennefer standing at the far side, searching through a large, dusty tome.

“Yennefer,” he repeats, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. 

The sorceress turns and smiles at him, and Jaskier wants to smile back, but her movement shifts the sleeves of her dress and he catches sight of – what  _ is _ that?

He drops his things unceremoniously and half-jogs across the room, reaching out and snatching Yennefer’s hand. “What happened to you?” he asks, pushing her sleeve up to look at more of her arm. It’s – scarring, clearly, of some sort, but not like anything Jaskier has ever seen. It’s got a pattern like frost, spreading out in spidery little lines, and it’s  _ gray, _ the color looking cold against Yennefer’s dark skin.

Yennefer is frowning when he looks back up to her face, but she doesn’t snatch her arm back. “What I wanted to speak to you about,” she says. “Sort of. It’s related. I’m  _ fine, _ bard.”

“You don’t look fine,” Jaskier protests. Up close, he can see the light bags under her eyes and the way her cheeks are slightly sunken. He drops her arm in favor of reaching out to pull her into a hug. She comes, though stiffly. “What happened?  _ When  _ did it happen?”

She sighs, though when Jaskier doesn’t immediately release her, she relaxes a little into the embrace. “It was before the dragon hunt,” she says, and Jaskier very carefully doesn’t go stiff at that. “Before – well. You don’t need all of the sordid details, but – ”

“Before your fight with Geralt?”

Yennefer stiffens and then pushes Jaskier away. He lets her, but doesn’t go much further than a step. “He told you?”

“Eventually, yes,” Jaskier says, watching her face carefully. He sees the way her lip trembles just slightly before she gets it under control, the way she almost frowns.

“Eventually?” she asks.

Jaskier sighs, reaching out slowly to touch her shoulder. She doesn’t pull back or stop him. “You weren’t the only one to walk down that mountain broken-hearted, dear heart,” he says softly. 

Yennefer’s eyes go wide. “I – you…. What did he do?”

Jaskier laughs, and it’s much less bitter now than it might have been, had this conversation happened before the winter. “What  _ didn’t _ he do is a better question,” he says lightly. “Come on, let’s sit down. I actually have quite a lot to tell you – and you clearly have a lot to tell me.”

“Hm.” Yennefer shakes his hand off, but doesn’t bother to step to the side, so when she goes past him, her shoulder brushes his. “Let me get some wine. Est Est, right?”

Jaskier chuckles. “Yes, thank you.”

* * *

They settle in a little sitting room that Yennefer leads him to with their wine. Jaskier revels in it, for just a moment, the first glass of real, decent wine he’s had for months, before he sets it aside.

“Tell me about the scars,” he says. “And what else you wanted to speak to me about. And then I’ll tell you about this winter.”

Yennefer hums and takes an uncharacteristically large gulp of wine. “Fringilla tried to kill me,” she says, clear and blunt, though Jaskier can see the hurt in her eyes.

“Fringilla?” Jaskier asks, casting about in his head. He recognizes the name, but it’s not someone he’s met, he doesn’t think. Certainly if it’s someone Yennefer knows – well enough to be a little hurt that they tried to kill her – he would remember having met them.

“Sorceress,” Yennefer clarifies. “We were at Aretuza together. There was...hm, a bit of...contention, between us. I...may have stolen her assignment at Aedirn. We weren’t exactly  _ friends, _ there, and we certainly weren’t  _ after, _ but….”

“But an attempt to murder you was a bit much,” Jaskier suggests, and Yennefer tips her head toward him before taking another generous sip of wine.

“She’s the sorceress assigned to Nilfgaard,” Yennefer continues after a moment. “I’m sure that explains plenty about what she’s like, now.”

Jaskier feels the way his face twists, and he takes his own generous swallow of wine. “I assume she’s fallen in with the White Flame worship,” he says, with no small amount of contempt. 

Yennefer snorts. “She’s almost definitely leading the cavalry of that particular cult,” she says, clearly bitter. “She was...better. Before. But now – well, now. Anyway,” she finishes off her glass and then fills it again, “she tried to kill me.”

“And didn’t succeed, thank the gods,” Jaskier nods toward her and raises his glass. Yenenfer raises hers, but she’s frowning.

“She should have,” she murmurs. “That’s…part of why I wanted to speak to you.”

“What do you mean?”

Jaskier sets his glass aside again, and when Yennfer doesn’t reply and instead drinks her whole glass at once again, he reaches out to put a hand on her knee. “Yen,” he says softly. “What do you mean, she should have killed you? What happened?”

Yennefer huffs and stands, though she reaches out and squeezes Jaskier’s wrist before it falls from her knee. She paces across the room and then back, reaching up to push her hair back from her neck and then pull it over her shoulder. 

“These scars,” she says finally, pushing her sleeves up to reveal the frost-like, gray marks again. They’re on both arms, and from what Jaskier can see, likely trail up further, and could be elsewhere, too. “They’re from Fringilla, but there shouldn’t have been scars left. I should have  _ died. _ Whatever Fringilla did – it was powerful, and  _ dark. _ More powerful and darker than anything I’ve ever encountered before, and I couldn’t defend myself. I didn’t get the chance. I knew, when I saw whatever her Chaos had turned into – black and full of lightning, Jaskier, it was something  _ rotten _ – I knew I was going to die.”

She stops pacing and finally looks at him. Her eyes are wide and full of unshed tears, and Jaskier wants nothing more than to stand and pull her into his arms, but he knows that he can’t. Not right now, at least.

“I knew I was going to die,” she repeats, soft. “And then I woke up, no worse for wear except for the scars. They were black, at first. They’ve faded, but I don’t think they’ll ever fade away entirely.”

“Yennefer, I – ”

“I don’t need your apologies,” she cuts him off, and though the words are sharp, her expression is soft.

Jaskier nods. “Okay,” he agrees. “I just – what happened, then? If you should have died, why didn’t you?”

Yennefer shifts her hair again, and then comes back and sits heavily into her seat before refilling her wine and taking a deep drink. “It’s the wish,” she says, finally. “It...it saved me.”

“That’s why you were trying to figure out the wish,” Jaskier says, though it’s a redundant statement. “Why you and Geralt fought.”

Yennefer nods and takes another drink. “It’s odd, though,” she murmurs. “He was – he didn’t want me looking into the wish, I could tell, and he said as much, but it was…. It wasn’t just that, that made him go.”

Jaskier bites his lip against explaining. Surely, Yennefer knows – or can  _ guess. _ And it’s not as if it won’t become a relevant topic, if she accompanies him to Ellander,  _ but. _ He’s not certain that Geralt’s thoughts that night are his to tell, even if he does know them.

“He wants to apologize,” he says instead. “He asked that I tell you that.”

“Did he really?” Yennefer says, clearly doubtful. 

Jaskier snorts. “He really did,” he confirms. “I know, it doesn’t sound like him. But it was an...interesting winter, so say the least.”

Yennefer quirks a brow. “Oh?”

He takes a drink of wine. “Well. I suppose I should start at the beginning – at least one of them.”

“Speak plainly, bard.” Yennefer’s tone is sharp, but when Jaskier looks at her, she’s smiling, eyes bright –  _ teasing. _ He grins.

“Yes, yes, I will,” Jaskier promises. “You know of Geralt’s child surprise.”

Yennefer frowns, and Jaskier knows it’s a sore spot, but there’s not much to be done about that – at least not right now, and not by him. “I do,” Yennefer murmurs.

“How  _ much _ do you know?” Jaskier thinks he knows the answer, but he wants to be sure.

“Nothing,” Yennefer says, confirming Jaskier’s thoughts. “Just that he claimed a child, and abandoned it.”

“Well,” Jaskier takes another drink of his wine, “ _ she  _ was a princess.”

Yennefer looks up from where she was studying her wine, expression sharp and eyes narrowed. “A princess,” she repeats. “ _ Was? _ ”

Jaskier nods. “The Lion Cub of Cintra,” he says. “Certainly, you’ve heard of the fate of Cintra.”

“Of course I have,” Yennefer snaps. “She – the queen and her husband, they were killed. Nilfgaard said that the heir went missing, and everyone assumed they’d just killed her too. Do you know where she is, if they didn’t?”

“Safe at Kaer Morhen.”

Yennefer scowls. “That’s impossible,” she says. “The assasination was after the snows would have made it impossible to traverse that godsforsaken mountain – ”

“Unless magic was involved,” Jaskier finishes for her. “You remember the charm you gave me?”

“The portal charm – Geralt had the other side,” Yennefer nods. “So...she had it? You gave it to her?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Not quite. Calanthe would have had my head if I had ever told her anything about Geralt – ”

“Wait,” Yennefer interrupts, holding up her hand. “You – Calanthe, you called the  _ Lioness of Cintra  _ by her first name. I’m missing something, clearly.”

Jaskier rubs at the back of his neck. “Yes, well. I didn’t exactly advertise it widely, though it also wasn’t actually a  _ secret,  _ per se – ”

“Jaskier.”

He coughs. “I was her music tutor,” he says. “From when she was two years old on, I would return to Cintra once a year and stay for a week or two to teach her music.”

“But you said you didn’t give the charm to her.”

“I didn’t.” Jaskier pauses to take a drink of wine, finishing off his glass. Without a word, Yennefer leans over and taps the rim of the glass, refilling it. “See, when she was – oh, about eight? Calanthe hired a bodyguard for her specifically. A Griffin Witcher named Coën.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Yennefer says. “Met him, too, briefly. He did seem to suddenly disappear from the Path…. Everyone probably assumed he was dead.”

“Likely. I gave the charm to him, and told him about Geralt and Ciri. Told him to use it if he ever needed to get Ciri out of Cintra and to Geralt. I had hoped, of course, when I gave it to him, that he wouldn’t have to use it. But….”

“But you knew it was a possibility,” Yennefer says. Jaskier nods somberly and takes a drink, but before Yennefer can say anymore, he continues.

“She needs you,” he says. Blunt and to the point. “Geralt and his mistakes aside, Ciri needs you, and we – the Witchers and I,  _ including _ Geralt – want you to teach her.”

“Teach her? What on earth could I teach her that a troupe of Witchers and a noble-turned-bard couldn’t? You did say she  _ was _ a princess.” Yennefer sounds bitter, even more bitter than when she was speaking of Fringilla, of Geralt. “I’m a sorceress, and a disgraced one at that – on the run from the Brotherhood. It’s been years since my education, since my time at courts, and it’s not as if any of that is even useful.”

Jaskier frowns. “What are you talking about, Yen?” he asks.

“All I have is magic and court nonsense,” Yennefer spits. “I’m of no use to a former princess that will now be raised as a Witcher.”

Suddenly, it clicks. Jaskier realizes that Yennefer really doesn’t know  _ anything _ about Ciri, because all she knows is Calanthe and Cintra.

“Did you never hear any talk – rumor or otherwise – of Pavetta? Calanthe’s daughter?” he asks.

Yennefer blinks, then seems to consider. “I remember hearing of her birth, and of her death. Obviously, she's Ciri's mother – Calanthe was young when Pavetta was born, but the likelihood of her carrying a child in her mid-thirties would have been slim. Never mind that it would have been considered a bastard, anyway, since her husband was dead.”

“Exactly,” Jaskier agrees, though he doesn’t mention that Ciri was only not a bastard by technicality. “But you never heard about the disastrous betrothal feast?”

“It was set upon by magic users and some cursed man,” Yennefer says, as if Jaskier is a particularly dim child.

Jaskier hadn’t known that the story had been changed. It makes sense, of course, both that the story was altered – Calanthe was always very careful about image – and that he wouldn’t have known it, since he didn’t talk about his involvement in the betrothal openly for Geralt’s sake. No one could “correct” him if he didn’t speak of it, and there was no point in telling him the altered version otherwise, since he’d  _ been there. _

“That was a lie,” Jaskier says. “Geralt and I were there – that’s how Geralt ended up with Ciri as his child surprise.”

Yennefer’s frown deepens. “Then...what  _ did _ happen?”

“Pavetta happened,” Jaskier says simply. “There were no proper magic users at that feast except for Mousesack and Geralt. Pavetta, though – she had Chaos. And a  _ lot  _ of it, considering that her screaming when Calanthe’s men tried to kill her lover made her levitate thirty feet in the air and shattered windows, among other destruction.”

There’s a heavy pause while that information settles, and Jaskier spends it drinking probably too much of his wine at once. Yennefer doesn’t mention it, just reaches up absently to refill it when it’s gone.

“Ciri has magic,” Yennefer finally murmurs. “You want me to teach her to – what? Control it, harness it, suppress it?”

Jaskier scowls. “Definitely not to suppress it,” he says. “That sounds dangerous, considering the damage Pavetta did. But control, yes. Harnessing it – well, I supposed if she would like to, yes, that too.”

“Okay,” Yennefer says. “I...I can try. I’ve never really...taught it. Magic, Chaos – all of my knowledge of how to teach comes from Aretuza, and that’s...well. It was Aretuza.”

“Anything you can do will be worth it,” Jaskier assures her. “And anyway, that’s not all. She  _ was _ a princess – she could still be a queen someday, if she decides she wants to take Cintra back. She needs to know about court, about manners and deception and politics. There’s only so much I can do by myself, Yen.”

He takes a deep breath, and another drink, and continues. “She needs a teacher. Of magic, of court. But more than that – more than anything else, she needs a family. She lost hers with the fall of Cintra, and obviously we’re trying, the Witchers and I – but she needs a  _ mother, _ too.”

Yennefer flinches at the word, wine sloshing a little. “Jaskier, I can’t – ”

“You  _ can, _ ” Jaskier interrupts. “I know it’s not what you really want. I know she’s not  _ yours, _ not really. But she could be, and she needs someone, and you – you’re the best for it. And not just because of your magic and your court knowledge, either. Geralt didn’t mean what he said on that mountain, and even if he had, I’m telling you right now that it’s horseshit.”

“Jaskier.”

“You’ll be a fantastic mother, Yennefer, dear heart, you  _ will. _ ”

“ _ Jaskier. _ ”

Before Jaskier can say anything else, Yennefer has tossed her glass of wine aside and knocked his from his hand as well, apparently heedless of the mess. She grasps his wrist and  _ yanks, _ pulling him up from his seat and into her arms, as she wraps them around him and buries her face in his throat. He can feel the wetness where she starts to cry against him, and his heart thuds painfully in his chest.

He wraps his arms around her as well, softer than hers around him, and pets through her hair. He can smell the lilac and gooseberry she covers herself in, that scent that leaves Geralt caught and stupid every time he smells it, but underneath it, his face practically buried into her hair, he can smell magic and her tears and dust. He wonders how much time she’s been spending in dusty laboratories and hugs her just a little bit tighter.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs after a moment. “I’m sorry, I just – ”

“Don’t,” Jaskier stops her, leaning just far enough back to see her face. “It’s okay, dear heart.”

Yennefer huffs, something like a laugh, and finally pulls back from him, wiping furiously at her face. “Don’t mention this,” she says, the threat clear as crystal in her voice, and Jaskier chuckles.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Might want to clean the wine out of the carpet, though.”

Yennefer looks to where there’s spreading red stains sinking into the plush rug and sighs. “I suppose,” she says, as if it’s a great chore, and waves her hand. The stains disappear in a blink.

She bends to gather the glasses, thankfully not broken. “Sit,” she orders, and Jaskier does as he’s told while she refills the glasses and hands him one. It’s no longer regular wine, or if it is, it’s nothing Jaskier has ever had before.

“Well,” she says after taking a drink. “I supposed I’ll go to Kaer Morhen, then, and meet Ciri.”

“Please do,” Jaskier nods. “Although, I have another favor to ask, first.”

“Hm?”

“I have business in Ellander,” Jaskier says. “Intelligence work, of a sort. And one of my contacts informed me that a mage would be needed.”

Yennefer considers for a moment. “Alright,” she says. “Though I expect to be told more about what’s happening than just  _ intelligence work, _ bard.”

“Of course,” Jaskier nods. “Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you. If I can, of course.”

“Is there anything you  _ can’t _ tell me?”

“Just what I don’t already know myself,” Jaskier shrugs. He takes a sip of his drink. “It’s a...delicate situation. One I’d like for Geralt to not know about until it’s resolved.”

Yennefer raises her brows. “You said that I was not the only broken heart on that mountain,” she says. “I would assume after this winter that’s no longer true – and you’d better be telling me that story as well, later. But if Geralt can’t know about this – what, exactly,  _ is _ this?”

Jaskier sits back into his chair and sighs. “How much do you know about Blaviken?”

* * *

Yennefer agrees to accompany him to Ellander once they sober up a little, and joy of joys, even has a plan to get into Mahakam.

“Assuming Yatham is alive, of course, which he  _ should _ be, but he does have a penchant for gambling….”

“That does not fill me with an overwhelming sense of confidence, Yen.”

“Oh hush,” Yennefer swats at him before finishing up whatever she’s fussing with – it looks like a very, very large pelt of some kind, and Jaskier has no idea what she’s trying to do with it or why. He’s also relatively certain he won’t get an answer if he asks, so he doesn’t ask. “Anyway, we can’t portal straight into Ellander. That close to the Temple, the Brotherhood is likely watching for magic – I am still technically on the run, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Jaskier takes the pelt when it’s handed to him – holding it does not clarify what kind of pelt it is, and that just cements Jaskier’s decision to not ask about it or what Yennefer is doing with it – and then hands it back when Yennefer grabs for it. “That’s fine, I doubt Lilia is expecting me for at least another week or longer, anyway.”

“Lilia is your contact?”

“One of them, yes,” Jaskier nods. “I have absolutely no idea what we’ll be finding in Ellander except Lilia and a lead, or at least one of  _ Lilia’s _ contacts and a lead.”

“Thrilling,” Yennefer says drily, and then with a wave of her hand the pelt just...disappears. Jaskier blinks at where it was, then shakes his head.

“How close  _ can  _ we portal? Just to give me an idea of travel time.” He steps out of Yennefer’s way when she sweeps past him toward the laboratory, and then turns to follow her. 

“That depends,” Yennefer says. “Are we actively  _ avoiding _ Geralt?”

“Don’t have to,” Jaskier answers, leaning against the door while he watches Yennefer sort through several books that look like they’re older than her and Geralt combined. “He’s probably back at Kaer Morhen right now, and he’ll be staying in Kaedwen when he does go back to the Path.”

Yennefer pauses to turn and raise her eyebrows at him. “And he agreed to that? Willingly?”

“It’s stunning what sudden fatherhood will do to a man. Or, Witcher, as the case may be.”

“Hm.” Yennefer huffs and turns back to her books. “Okay, if we don’t have to worry about accidentally running into Geralt – probably just outside Flotsam.”

“Outside of Flotsam in the direction of Hagge, or of Biały Most?” 

“Hagge.”

Jaskier hums and does some quick math in his head. “Okay, so…. Depending on how we’re traveling, that would make travel to Ellander take anywhere from...a single day to five or six days.”

“Horses, bard,” Yennefer says, finally seeming to decide upon several ancient tomes to grab. “I may not be able to use my magic, but I’m certainly not  _ walking. _ ”

“More toward the  _ one day _ side, then, gods willing.”

“The gods have nothing to do with it,” Yennefer snorts, turning and opening a cupboard just to pull out some kind of bag and toss it at Jaskier. He catches it with only a little fumbling when the weight of it shocks him.

It’s coin, judging from the heaviness and the clinking. He opens the bag to find a very significant pile of crowns. For a moment, he considers asking where in the world Yenneer acquired this much money, but quickly rethinks it. 

“Fair enough,” he says, looking back up to Yennefer. The books have disappeared exactly like the pelt, and Jaskier continues to not ask questions. “When should we leave?”

“That’s up to you. We can go now, find an inn in Flotsam to stay a night, then travel on, or we can rest now, make travel quicker once we’re through the portal.”

Jaskier hums, hefting the bag of coin in his palm while he thinks. “Rest now, travel quicker,” he decides.

Yennefer nods. “Come on, then, I’ll show you where you can sleep.”

* * *

“Tell me again, about Blaviken,” Yennefer says the next morning, after they’ve stepped through her portal to see Flotsam on the horizon.

“Which part?”

“Why was Renfri even  _ there? _ Aside from the fact that there was a market and she and her men were known to rob merchants, there’s nothing special about Blaviken. You said she had a score to settle, that she and some wizard basically trapped Geralt between a rock and a hard place – which I knew from him, obviously, though with  _ significantly  _ less detail, mind you – but you never said  _ why.  _ What was the score?”

Jaskier blinks. “I thought you knew, honestly,” he says.

“Knew  _ what? _ ”

“Stregobor,” Jaskier says simply. “It wasn’t just  _ some wizard. _ Renfri was born under the Black Sun.”

Yennefer stops so abruptly that Jaskier nearly runs into her, and there’s a peculiar, haunted look on her face when she whirls around to face him. 

“She was?” she asks, quietly. 

Jaskier nods, and Yennefer huffs, pushing a hand through her hair and messing up the previously-immaculate curls. 

“I – ” she starts, and then huffs again, sounding frustrated. “I knew – I  _ know _ that Stregobor is a putrid, slimy excuse for a man, he always  _ has been, _ but – ”

“You really didn’t know,” Jaskier murmurs, a little shocked.. “Yen – ”

“I knew about his – his perversion, the girls, that  _ stupid _ prophecy. Everyone knew about  _ that. _ I didn’t know that Renfri was  _ one of them. _ That he tried to use Geralt for his – for – ”

Jaskier swallows and takes a tentative step forward, hand outstretched to grasp Yennefer’s shoulder. She doesn’t stop him, but she also doesn’t really react at all, staring somewhere near his sternum but clearly not  _ looking, _ not really.

They stand there for a moment, Jaskier unsure what he should say – what he  _ could _ say. Yennefer’s breathing is just slightly shaky.

Finally, Jaskier can’t stand it any longer, and he opens his mouth to speak, only to have Yennefer suddenly look up, fire in her eyes. She jerks back from him before spinning around and opening a portal in the road before them. 

“Fuck the Brotherhood,” she says, steely. “ _ Fuck _ them.”

She steps through the portal and disappears. Jaskier stares, open-mouthed, for a split second before he stumbles forward and follows her through. 

Yennefer has dropped them into a mostly-forgotten alley in Ellander, but one Jaskier knows – there’s a bakery to the left, a tea shop to the right, and a bustling market square in front.

“The Smiling Bell,” he offers, when Yennefer gestures pointedly at the mouth of the alley, where the general hubbub of the city is filtering toward them. “A tavern of surprisingly ill-repute for how well-off it is.”

“Lead the way,” Yennefer says, and so Jaskier does.

True to the etiquette of most cities, no one really pays them any mind when they stride out of the alley, though Jaskier does see some women looking jealously at Yennefer’s finery. Yennefer either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore it, and he follows suit, weaving around the crowds easily.

The Smiling Bell is bustling, packed even though it’s not even midday yet, and Jaskier stops just inside the door to inspect the mass of people. There’s no one he recognizes right off, but that doesn’t mean much. Yennefer touches his elbow lightly, a silent question in her eyes when he looks back to her, and he tips his head toward the bar.

“Should be something left for me,” he says. “Wait here.”

Yennefer’s eyes narrow, but she nods. Jaskier makes his way through this crowd just as easily, though he goes slower, listening in to conversations as he passes, taking note of the faces he sees. Eventually, he reaches the bar, and is greeted silently by a tired barmaid.

“I was told there was something left here for me,” he tells her, voice low. She quirks a brow. “Dandelion should be the name.”

She hums. “Aye,” she says. “Squirrely little man brought a message, a week ago now, two?” She turns, one hand cupped around her mouth, and shouts, “Erik!”

While they wait for whoever Erik is to respond to the call, Jaskier tries to puzzle out who the  _ squirrelly little man _ might be. He’s narrowed it down to about a dozen names when a boy arrives at the bar, looking flustered and annoyed. He can’t be more than fifteen, if he’s that old. 

“Ma’am?” he asks, sounding as annoyed as he looks. 

“Don’t sass me, boy,” the barmaid snaps, but she reaches into her apron for something – a key, Jaskier sees, when she hands it over to Erik. “There’s a fancy envelope in that back room, got a seal on it and everything. Bring it here.”

Erik rolls his eyes, but darts around the other side of the bar, ostensibly to do as he’s told. The barmaid sighs after him, shaking her head, and then wanders off to other patrons. Jaskier leans against the bar and scans the room again.

There’s nothing and no one any more interesting from this angle, but luckily Erik returns with his letter before he can get bored. Jaskier takes pity and digs out a meagre handful of coppers for him, which earns him a quick, “Thanks!” before the boy is off again, lost into the mess of people milling about.

He cracks the seal and unfolds the letter to find Lilia’s handwriting again. A cursory scan tells him that the code is probably giving him another location, and more details on what the lead is. He folds the parchment back up and stuffs it into his doublet before slipping back through the crowd to where Yennefer is still leaned against a wall. People are giving her a wide berth even with how packed the tavern is.

“Anything?” she asks.

He taps his doublet, where the letter rests, and nods. “Come on,” he says. “Somewhere quieter.”

Yennefer shrugs and follows him back out of The Smiling Bell and into the streets of Ellander.

Twenty minutes later finds them in a significantly less populated tavern, each with a glass of overpriced wine. They find a table near the fire, pushed into a corner, and settle side-by-side. 

Jaskier takes a healthy sip of his wine – not terrible, all things considered – and then pulls Lilia’s letter back out.

“Can you just read that?” Yennefer asks. 

Jaskier nods. “More or less,” he says. “It’s a useful skill.”

Yennefer shakes her head, a small smile on her lips. Jaskier opens his mouth to ask, but she interrupts him by gesturing at the letter. “Go on.”

He snorts and takes another drink of wine before turning back to the letter. 

“She says there’s a story one of her men overheard when he was trading with some of the dwarves,” he says as he uncodes and reads. “A princess struck by a blood curse, hidden in a mine. The curse must be why Lilia told me to bring a mage.”

“Sounds like a fairytale,” Yennefer scoffs into her glass.

Jaskier shrugs one shoulder, scanning over the rest of the letter. “Doesn’t most of this?” he points out. Yennefer rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue the point. 

“The family that owns the mine is apparently  _ very _ territorial over it, even though they haven’t mined it in decades,” he continues.

“Sounds promising,” Yennefer murmurs.

Jaskier hums. “It does,” he agrees. 

The rest of the letter is just further details – the family name of who owns the mine, the approximate location of it, a few more overheard rumors. 

“I think we have to look, at least,” Jaskier finally says, after they’ve both contemplated the contents of the letter for several minutes.

Yennefer hums. “I think so too. I suppose I should get a hold of Yatham, then.”

“How?”

“Shouldn’t be hard.” Yennefer waves a hand, then signals for more wine when a barmaid passes by. “He’s a right bastard and most any place that holds Gwent tournaments from here to Ebbing know him by name.”

Jaskier snorts. “Sounds pleasant.”

“Absolutely not,” Yennefer says, shaking her head. “But he should be able to get us into Mahakam with minimal bribery and bloodshed.”

“I would prefer  _ none, _ if you care to know.”

Yennefer shrugs, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “Unfortunately one or the other is guaranteed to be necessary, if not both. It’s not as if you don’t have a strong stomach and a penchant for stabbing first, asking questions later, Jaskier.”

“Not the point, Yen.”

* * *

Two days later, they have word that Yatham will be waiting for their arrival at the entrance of the pass that leads to Mahakam. 

“The rumor Lilia’s man heard, it said a blood curse, right?”

Jaskier looks up from where he’d been inspecting a very nice quill to find Yennefer in front of him, arms full of various things from the nearby apothecary that Jaskier cannot – and doesn’t  _ want  _ to – name. 

“Yes,” he confirms. 

Yennefer hums. “Unfortunate,” she says. “If this isn’t a dead end, and this is really her – it might take some effort to fix this.”

Jaskier shrugs, reaching out and taking a few things from her when they teeter a little. “I expected nothing less,” he says. 

“Yes, well, I hope I’m wrong, but just to make sure – you  _ do  _ have a strong stomach, right?”

“Yes, Yennefer.” Jaskier snorts. “What part of  _ decades travelling with a Witcher _ did you miss, dear heart?”

“None of it,” Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Unfortunately, your songs are catchy.”

Jaskier gasps, flinging a hand over his heart. “Oh,  _ Yennefer, _ ” he exclaims, overdramatic entirely on purpose.

Yennefer rolls her eyes again. “Don’t push it, bard, you still need me around for this adventure.”


	2. chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jaskier has always been, on the whole, rather neutral toward dwarves and their particular...eccentricities._
> 
> Jaskier and Yennefer succeed in getting into the dwarven mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some warning in this one for blood (no heavy injury or anything, just gross magic bullshit) and an instance of a non-consensual kiss. feel free to ask on tumblr or message me on discord (nitwitchery#7070) if you feel like you need more details, specifics will also be provided in end notes. (non-con was not tagged because it's so brief and only a kiss; please let me know if you think i should change that!)

Jaskier has always been, on the whole, rather neutral toward dwarves and their particular...eccentricities. 

After three days of hiking complicated trails through the Mahakam mountains to get to a specific, nearly-abandoned mine, accompanied by Yennefer, Yatham, and two of his associates, though, his opinion is beginning to trend toward the negative.

Overall, getting into the city and then the mountains had been – well, almost easy: Jaskier had had to submit to a frankly violating series of questions about his intentions and what, exactly, he wanted to do with this particular mine, as well as a full search of his person and things to ensure he had no hidden tricks; and Yennefer had had to sacrifice an entire day assisting with...something mage-y. But there had been no blood.

The bribery, he assumes, had been done when Yennefer was off doing those aforementioned mage-y things. 

“Here,” Yatham finally announces, an hour after sunset on the third day. He gestures toward a clearly-marked path that leads to what Jaskier realizes, after a moment of squinting, is a cottage.

A...rather cute cottage, actually. He squints at it some more.

“You’ll need to ask them to go into the mine,” Yatham says. “If you’d like to live through the experience, at least.”

“The family that owns it?” Yennefer asks.

Yatham nods. “They’re a secretive lot,” he says. “Not known for being particularly friendly, either.”

“Of course not,” Jaskier sighs.

“Come on,” Yennefer says, sweeping past Yatham and his companions. Jaskier gives another sigh and follows her. 

The cottage is squat and small, clearly built mostly, if not entirely, from the supplies that could be found in the surrounding wilderness. Jaskier’s relatively sure that neither he nor Yennefer would be able to stand straight up inside; he’s also almost certain it won’t be an issue.

Yennefer bends slightly to use the decorative door knocker, then straightens.

“Try not to look so murderous,” Jaskier murmurs. Yennefer just hums in response, quirking a brow at him, and then there’s a commotion from inside the cottage that has both of them turning back to the door. 

It swings open with a creak. The dwarf standing before them is squat and round, short even for a dwarf, bearded and bespectacled. He’s wearing an ill-fitting, rumpled red-orange tunic and a slouching, gold pointed hat. For a moment, the three of them blink at one another, and then Jaskier thrusts a hand out.

“Hello!” he says, overly cheery even to his own ears. “I’m Jaskier the Bard, Professor of Music and Modern Histories at Oxenfurt Academy.”

The dwarf gives him an odd look. “What do you want?” he asks.

“Uh,” Jaskier slowly lowers his hand. “Well – ”

“We heard a fascinating rumor about the mine your family owns,” Yennefer interrupts smoothly, “and we’d like a chance to investigate, if you’d allow. I’m Yennefer of Vengerberg, and I’m certain my fame precedes me.”

The dwarf scowls, eyes narrowing. “What kind of rumor would a  _ mage _ have heard about our mine?”

“A cursed, sleeping princess,” Jaskier answers. “It just so happens there’s one of those we’re looking for.”

There’s a pause, and then more commotion from inside the cottage. The dwarf sighs.

“Donat Folgatin,” he says finally. “Give me a moment.”

He turns, and the door slams shut behind him.

Jaskier turns to Yennefer with a questioning look, but she just shrugs. 

They wait for a handful of minutes, and then there’s more noise, banging and multiple voices swearing before Donat returns, opening the door accompanied this time. Behind him stand six other dwarves, all wearing the same kind of ill-fitting clothes and slouching, pointed hats in bright colors. All of them, including Donat, are carrying long, thin packs slung over their shoulders.

“Have any experience with blood curses, witch?” one at the back, in a red tunic and brown hat, sneers.

“I do,” Yennefer says coolly. “I assume the rumors we’ve heard are correct, then?”

Donat hums. “Unfortunately so. Come on, it’s no small hike. Grakhoul, with me, you won’t behave otherwise.”

* * *

The march to the mine takes about an hour. Donat and Grakhoul lead the way, Yennefer and Jaskier following, and the remaining five dwarves after them. Jaskier feels rather watched, all told, but he tries to ignore the prickling at his nape.

Donat holds up a hand to stop them as they reach the mouth of a cave – the entrance to the mine, Jaskier assumes. “Sanod and Strozz, up here with Grakhoul and I. Darek, Basil, Henryk, behind the mage and the bard – in that order, please.”

The dwarves all move at once, leaving Jaskier feeling a bit dizzy once they’re still again. Jaskier and Yennefer stand in the middle of the formation, him in front of her, four dwarves in front and three behind.

“You will need to follow our steps exactly,” Donat says, turned to face them where he stands at the front of the line. Grakhoul remains facing the cave, arms crossed while he mutters, and Strozz and Sanod – Jaskier doesn’t know which one is which – are murmuring to one another, throwing the occasional glance over their shoulders to Yennefer and Jaskier. “The mine is protected by dozens of traps; we know where they all are. You do not. Follow our steps and my directions exactly.”

He goes to turn around, clearly prepared to march into the mine, but Yennefer speaks. “What, exactly, are we to expect once we’re past the traps?”

“A princess in a coffin,” Donat answers. “She looks dead, sounds and seems dead, but she’s not. Believe me, it will be much easier to understand when you see her.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier turns to look at Yennefer, but she just shakes her head and adjusts the pack she’s carrying. Jaskier shrugs and faces front again.

“Ready?” Donat asks.

“Yes,” Jaskier and Yennefer say it at the same time. There’s a wordless murmur of agreement from the other six dwarves.

Donat turns back around and marches inside. Like soldiers falling into step, they all follow, pace measured and rather quick for dwarves – Jaskier feels like he’s barely moving forward, now, and certainly Yennefer feels the same. Neither of them mention it.

There’s a path clearly worn into the stone they’re walking, and Jaskier sees the way the dwarves follow it exactly, never stepping even the edge of a boot outside the weathered marks. He follows suit, sure that he doesn’t want to know the consequences if he doesn’t.

It isn’t until they’ve travelled for several minutes, light diminishing slowly into nothing, that Donat stops and they all stop behind him. He pulls his pack forward and digs around inside it for a moment before pulling out a short torch that he lights with something else from his pack that Jaskier can’t quite make out. The light hurts his eyes for a moment, but then he adjusts, and he can see that the cave they’re in, while narrow, is actually  _ huge  _ – he can barely even make out the ceiling above them.

“There’s a sharp curve ahead, to the right,” Donat says, “and then we’ll be going downhill, into the mine itself. There are less traps here, but they’re much, much worse ones if they get set off. Strozz, Basil, light your torches as well.”

Jaskier watches one of the dwarves standing behind Grakhoul – Strozz, since he knows Basil is behind him and Yennefer – pull out and light another torch. When he looks over his shoulder, the middle dwarf in the last three has done the same. The light doesn’t seem that much stronger, but Jaskier knows that in a cave, in a  _ mine, _ any light is better than none.

“No more worn-in footpath after that curve,” Grakhoul mutters, “remember that, Donat. They’ll have to follow us and the wood rail.”

“Right,” Donat nods. “Got it, bard? Mage?”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, at the same time that Yennefer confirms, “I do.”

Jaskier finds that he’s rubbing his fingers together, enough that they’re beginning to hurt despite the callouses, and gives himself a little shake to try and give the anxiety an outlet. Yennefer’s hand rests on his shoulder, though there’s no tingle of magic – the touch is just meant to be its own comfort.

It does help. Donat signals and they begin their slow march forward once more. As they follow the curve and the stone ends, Jaskier sees at his feet the wood rail Grakhoul mentioned, and tries to align his whole body to it as he watches where the dwarves in front of him step. He can feel Yennefer behind him doing the same thing.

The light is not much, barely enough for him to see the dwarves’ feet and the rail, so it shocks him a little when the path suddenly tilts. Yennefer’s hand, still on his shoulder, catches him before he can stumble properly.

“Careful, bard,” she murmurs, and he huffs a laugh.

“Trying,” he murmurs back. 

The dwarves ignore their words, if they hear them at all, and they continue the way down. Luckly, the angle of the path doesn’t get any more extreme, so once Jaskier has adjusted to it, he doesn’t have to worry about stumbling again. 

He thinks they’ve been walking for twenty, maybe thirty minutes, when the walls around them start to widen but the ceiling dips closer and closer. It isn’t until the stone is close enough that Jaskier is certain he can feel the rough bumps of the stone ruffling his hair that Donat stops them again.

“No more traps after this point,” he says, gesturing his torch toward where Jaskier can vaguely see the path continuing. “But try not to stray, all the same; I can’t guarantee we’ll be able to find you if you get lost. It’s not a big mine, but there’s a lot of little branches off, and some of them lead to straight drop-offs. Others, to hot springs that will make you very ill, if they don’t outright kill you.”

“Got it,” Jaskier agress, slouching a little so he doesn’t feel so trapped by the close ceiling. “Although – am I going to need to duck or crawl to keep going?”

Donat turns more fully, clearly sizing him up. “No,” he says. “The ceiling rises again about sixty paces further, and opens up to a cavern in a hundred or so.”

“I assume the cavern is where you’ve kept the coffin and its princess,” Yennefer says.

“Aye.” Donat nods. “Come on, then.”

His estimates are about right; after sixty paces, the ceiling goes higher again, though not as high as it had been before, and then another hundred, maybe hundred and twenty, the path suddenly opens up into a wide, dark cavern. Jaskier can’t make out anything except the very vague shape of it, the three torches not enough to properly light more than a small circle around the nine of them.

“Torches,” Donat says, as if reading Jaskier’s mind. The four dwarves without theirs dig them out and light them, and suddenly the cavern is much easier to see, including the glass coffin in the middle of it, surrounded by various baskets and pottery that Jaskier assumes are full of supplies. Supplies for  _ what, _ he couldn’t say – the dwarves have been caring for what is, essentially, a corpse – but it’s not terribly important. He can only see the vague shape of a body through the glass, the light reflecting and obscuring his vision.

“May we?” Yennefer asks, when some of the dwarves have stepped aside to hang their torches in metal rings on the walls. She gestures toward the coffin.

“She’s frightening to look at,” Grakhoul says, but turns around and hands Jaskier his torch. “Donat was not wrong when he said she looks and seems dead, but isn’t.”

“I’m certain I’ve seen worse,” Yennefer says, pushing forward. Jaskier scrambles a little to follow, so she has light to see more clearly. “What do you know about this blood curse, if anything?”

“It backfired,” Donat answers, just as they come close enough to the coffin to properly see.

Jaskier feels as if he’s been shocked, exactly like when he touched the brooch, when he sees Renfri’s face. And it is Renfri, even if she doesn’t look....right. Dead, really, the dwarves were right; her skin is pale, nearly grey, and her cheeks are sunken in, skin tight around her lips but oddly loose around her jaw, her neck. But the hair is the same, as if not a day has passed, riotous, messy curls and chopped unevenly, one side longer where it drapes over her shoulder. There’s no blood, dried or new, but Jaskier can see wounds, still, not healed but clearly not new, either. Some on her hands, scrapes along her throat, and then one torn puncture just shy of tearing her jugular out entirely. A killing blow, but not an instant one; one that didn’t have to kill, if the proper care was taken. 

Jaskier doesn’t let himself think too deeply about it, instead focusing back onto the details. She looks dead, yes, but she doesn’t look like she’s been dead for long, is the thing. If Jaskier were pressed, he would guess that she’d been lying here for a week, if that – but he knows that’s not right. It’s been over thirty years.

“Backfired?” Yennefer asks, leaning close to the glass of the coffin, clearly inspecting Renfri’s...not-corpse. Jaskier doesn’t exactly know how to think of it, but pushes it to the back of his mind.

“Magic doesn’t work right around them,” another one of the dwarves answers. Jaskier turns and sees it’s Basil speaking, though he’s looking at his feet and shuffling awkwardly. “The girls, the ones born under that eclipse. I know that the prophecy is hogwash, that prophet’s considered mad, but….”

“But there is something _ off _ about them,” Yennefer finishes. “Yes, I know. Can we remove the top? I need to see clearer, to touch if I can.”

Henryk, Donat, Grakhoul, and Strozz all move forward. Yennefer and Jaskier take a step back to give them room, and with a little effort, they lift the glass top off of the coffin. It gets moved to the side and set gently on the ground.

“We clean her, change her clothes, a few times a week,” Donat says, taking the torch from Jaskier’s hand and setting it into a little ring that was hidden under the glass. “Not much else we can do. Not sure we need to even do that much, but….”

He looks at Renfri, lying still and very much looking dead, and sighs.

“You care for her,” Jaskier says. “All of you. And you have, for thirty years.”

Donat hums. “Aye.”

“Thank you,” Yennefer says. Jaskier turns to her, shocked, and she gives a one-shouldered shrug.

“She was –  _ is  _ important to Geralt,” she says. “Certainly, that makes her important to us, too.”

“Of course,” Jaskier agrees, soft. He turns back to Donat, then looks at the others individually. “Yes, thank you.”

“Geralt,” Grakhoul says. “That’s the Witcher who did this to her.”

Jaskier winces slightly. “Yes.” No point in trying to sugarcoat the truth.

“It was supposed to be him, I think,” Basil pipes up. “The curse, it was on her knife.”

“What?” Yennefer turns to face Basil. “What do you mean?”

Basil trembles slightly. “It – the knife, her knife. She said it was the curse. That’s all I know.”

Yennefer spins to look at the others. “Do any of you know any more?”

“Not for sure,” Donat says.

“Just guesses, really,” Henryk adds.

“Tell me everything, then,” Yennefer says. “Even if it’s just a wild guess – anything could help.”

“She said the curse was on the knife,” Strozz says. “Something to do with blood, with sleep. She never said what her plan was, why it was cursed, but when it happened….” He trails off, looking sad as he rubs at his face.

“When it happened,” Sanod continues, quiet, eyes almost closed when Jaskier turns to look at him, “when she was – killed,  _ not _ killed, by that Witcher, it was her that got put to sleep. We think it was supposed to be him – or someone else, someone else she was planning to cut.”

Yennefer and Jaskier share a look. “Stregobor?” he asks.

“No,” Yennefer shakes her head. “She had to have known he was too powerful for a simple sleeping curse put onto a knife, even if it was blood magic. Do any of you know if the curse was tied with blood when it was cast, or if it was just meant to activate with blood?”

There’s a general murmur in the negative, but then Darek pipes up. “I don’t know if they agree,” he says, waving toward his fellows, “but I think it’s that second one.”

“Why?” Donat asks.

“She was mumbling about making sure she cut deep but not lethal,” Darek shrugs. “Didn’t make much sense then – or now, really…. But that could mean it was meant to activate, right? Not a part of the cast.”

“That sounds entirely stupid, Darek,” Grakhoul mutters. “Not sure what else we’d expect, but – ”

“No, no,” Yennefer interrupts. “It’s as good a guess as any. So, blood curse, not cast but activated, maybe…. Meant to be someone else asleep, not her – magic backfired, or….” Her eyes go wide and she whirls around, stepping up to the side of the uncovered coffin. Her hands hover over Renfri’s body for a moment, and then she seems to shake herself, palms pressing down, one on her belly and the other over her sternum.

Her eyes squeeze shut, expression going pinched. 

“Yennefer?”

There’s nothing for a moment, and then Yennefer is gasping, stepping back and ripping her pack forward to dig frantically through it.

“Blood,” she says. “It’s the  _ blood _ part that backfired.”

“What?” Jaskier’s question comes in chorus with several of the dwarves.

“I can’t be absolutely sure,” Yennefer says, still digging through her pack. It’s clearly bigger than it appears, by the way she keeps sifting through it deeper and deeper. “Because only Geralt would know exactly what wounds they both received when they fought, but – aha!”

She pulls an odd, short-bladed knife from the pack as well as a little glass vial. “Geralt’s a Witcher,” she says. “His blood never would have worked right. Can I portal out of here and back in without setting off anything?”

Donat gapes for a second. “I – yes, I would think so,” he says.

“I’ll be right back,” Yennefer says, and then she’s opening a portal and disappearing through it before Jaskier can even see what’s on the other side.

There’s a moment of awkward silence, and then Grakhoul mutters a curse in some bastardized version of Elder. “Where has she gone?” he asks, clearly directed at Jaskier.

Jaskier shrugs helplessly. “I have no idea,” he answers, honest. “She’ll…. Fuck, I  _ hope _ she comes back.”

Awkward silence descends once more, and Jaskier finds himself fidgeting, not quite sure what to do, where to  _ look. _ Staring at Renfri for too long is upsetting, and all of the dwarves look different shades of confused and annoyed, so he doesn’t want to look at them, either. Eventually, he settles on studying the ceiling, even as boring as it is, so he doesn’t make a fool of himself.

Two minutes pass, then three, four, five. Ten. Just when Jaskier is sure something has gone wrong, and he’s now alone in a mine with a pseudo-corpse and seven dwarves, a portal whirls open across the cavern and Yennefer steps through. This time, Jaskier catches sight of a forest on the other side, but it’s gone before he can see anything identifying.

“Where did you go?” he asks, mildly indignant. Yennefer hushes him and strides back across to the coffin, setting down the vial next to Renfri’s shoulder, now filled with...blood, probably. Jaskier shivers a little. The odd knife she keeps a hold of.

“I need to cut her,” she says, addressing the dwarves. “I promise I can heal it – and anything else – once she’s awake. But I need her blood, too.”

“She doesn’t bleed,” Donat says, clearly uncomfortable. But he keeps his distance, and so do the others, even though Grakhoul and Henryk are eyeing Yennefer’s knife distrustfully.

“Whatever I can get will work, even if it’s dust,” Yennefer says, and then she’s leaning down and cutting into Renfri’s arm.

Donat was right; Renfri doesn’t bleed. Jaskier ignores the way his stomach twists at the sight of flesh splitting, gray all the way through until it’s blue, deeper. But  _ something _ does come out, on Yennefer’s knife, when she slices again. It’s certainly not blood, not like Jaskier knows it, but it must be, because Yennefer turns and scrapes it into the vial before corking it and shaking it.

That done, she sets the vial back down and digs through her pack again. “Jaskier, come here,” she says. 

He steps closer, and she hands him another vial, this one full of something viscous and sickeningly green.

“You remember the djinn,” she says. “I have to hold the door open, which means you have to do this.”

“Do what?”

She hands him the vial of blood, too. “I was closer than I thought, when I said this sounded like a fairytale,” she says. “But like most fairytales, the realities are significantly less pretty. Mix those, please.” She keeps digging through her pack for something else.

Jaskier frowns, but does as he’s told, eyeing the amount of liquid in each bottle before uncorking the green one and pouring it into the blood. It hisses and turns – red, startlingly red, and then black, all in the space of a single breath. 

“You’re going to have to put that on your lips and kiss her,” Yennefer says, pulling out a bundle of herbs and then lighting it on fire without any further explanation. It’s different than the one she had before, with the djinn, but that’s all Jaskier manages to parse before the meaning of her words settles in his mind.

“I – what?”

Yennefer finally looks up at him, and she looks wild. “This will work, I’m almost certain, but – you have to paint your lips with that,” she gestures to the vial in his hand, “and kiss her. It won’t feel good, either, for anyone here, but especially you.”

“Reassuring,” Jaskier mutters, but brings the vial back up to his face. “Exactly how dangerous would it be if any of this ended up  _ inside _ me?”

“Almost certainly lethal,” Yennefer answers. “Do your best to avoid that, please. On your skin, your lips, that’s fine, even in your mouth as long as there’s no wounds – just don’t swallow it.”

Jaskier snorts. “Yeah, okay.” He sighs and brings the vial up to inspect the liquid inside before he tips a bit onto his fingers. It’s thick and sticky and  _ rank, _ still hissing faintly. “Why, though? You said this is like the djinn, you just have to hold the door open – why can’t you just send me there to look again?”

“Because you’re not an anchor, this time,” Yennefer explains, rather patiently for how frantic she looks. “There is no anchor, not really – even the lot of you.” She gestures to the dwarves. “It’s been thirty years. Any tie like you and Geralt had,  _ have, _ is long gone. No anchor means I can’t send you in – you’ll end up lost, just like she is.”

“Then how is this going to work?”

“It’s complicated, but basically it’s like plunging someone unconscious into a cold pool of water. Except she’s not unconscious, she’s dead without being dead, and the cold water is blood infused with Chaos. And some compounds you probably don’t want to know about.”

“Blood infused with – is this  _ Geralt’s _ blood?”

Yennefer laughs, a little hysterical. “Good job, Jaskier. Now, come on. She’s been in that place for over thirty years now, there’s no reason to keep her waiting any longer.”

Jaskier feels the texture of the stuff on his fingers again and shudders. “Ugh, okay, fine. Just this,” he mimes putting on lipstick, “and then kiss her?” 

“Yes. It’ll feel like you’re being slowly lit on fire, but you can’t move until she does.”

“Got it.” He pours a little more out and paints it over his lips, trying to ignore the godawful smell and the way it…. Well,  _ burns  _ isn’t the right word, but it’s all he can come up with.

That done, he steps closer to Renfri’s still form, ending up between her and Yennefer, but Yennefer doesn’t stop him. He hesitates for a split second, but then he sees her face again, like it was in that purgatory – wide-eyed and frightened. The image transposes over her, now, sunken and grey, and he shudders and leans down to kiss her.

For a single, split second it feels like nothing is happening – and then Yennefer makes a short, sharp noise, and Jaskier can  _ smell _ magic, and – 

_ Being slowly lit on fire _ has  _ nothing _ on what he’s feeling right now. He can’t even describe it, doesn’t  _ want _ to, wants to jerk back and be done, done. it  _ hurts.  _ But he doesn’t. He _ can’t. _

Time blurs in the wake of the pain, the magic searing over – through? – him. His legs start to shake and his head begins to spin and then suddenly, it’s over, no more pain or magic and, and – 

Renfri’s eyes open, that familiar startling brown that he’s seen in his dreams for years, and before Jaskier can do anything – pull back, take a breath, anything at all – she punches him.

He has the fleeting thought of  _ fair enough _ , before he feels his head hit something hard and unforgiving, and the world goes a sparkling black.

* * *

“There you are,” is the first thing he hears when he swims back to consciousness. For a moment, he can’t pin the voice, can barely even remember his own damn name, and then everything begins to filter back.

“Yen,” he mutters. His head throbs. “Is she okay?”

“I’m fine,” a new voice answers. He forces his eyes open and turns toward it.

Renfri. Renfri, whole and alive and looking exactly like she does in his dreams, but no longer panicked or ragged, and in different clothes. 

“Sorry about, uh,” Renfri gestures to his face, ostensibly to some kind of swelling from her punch – he can’t really feel anything past his whole head throbbing, but it’s not the first time he’s been punched in the face. “I always have woken up swinging.”

Jaskier laughs, then groans when it hurts his head. “It’s fine,” he says, sincere. He turns again, a little slower, to find Yennefer sitting on his other side. He realizes for the first time that he’s in a bed.

“What?” he asks, and then groans. Yennefer laughs.

“Donat and the others dismantled the traps, and then helped us bring you out of the mine. You were out for a good few hours, bard.”

“Wonderful,” Jaskier mutters. “ _ Please _ tell me you have something for my head.”

“You’re going to have to sit up, but yes.”

“Ah, fuck.” Jaskier takes a deep breath and steels himself before rolling more onto his side and pushing himself up onto an elbow. His head throbs harder and he grunts, but keeps going, until he’s finally sitting up in the bed, slouched a little against the headboard. Yennefer laughs again, and so does Renfri, but before he can protest there’s a glass of something alarmingly pink being shoved into his hand.

“Drink,” Yennefer orders. “It’s much more pleasant than the last thing I handed you, I promise.”

“It had better be,” Jaskier mutters, and does as he’s told. Whatever it is, it doesn’t really have a taste, and it burns slightly going down but not any worse than very watered down alcohol would. He hands the glass back to Yennefer and leans his head on the headboard again, feeling as the – whatever that was, starts to work.

“I guess I should say thank you,” Renfri says, after a moment. “I already thanked Yennefer, but she said all of this was because of you. I don’t – there’s not really  _ memories _ from...whatever that place was, but I feel like I know you. That’s why, isn’t it?”

Jaskier nods. “I would assume so,” he says, looking at Yennefer questioningly. 

She shrugs. “Best guess I have,” she says. “This isn’t exactly a very common occurrence.”

“The death without dying bit, or the living experiencing it and then having recurring dreams about it?”

Yennefer snorts. “Either one.” She stands and crosses the room, busying herself with something at a far table. Jaskier turns back to Renfri.

“I feel like I know you, too,” he says. “But I don’t know if that’s the purgatory experience, or – ”

“Geralt?” Renfri asks, a strange look on her face. She looks...hopeful, and pained, all at once.

“Yes,” Jaskier nods. “Geralt.”

“He’s still alive,” she says. “Well, of course he is, he’s a Witcher, but….”

“But?”

“He...made it out of Blaviken. I wasn’t sure, when I was – dying? Not dying, I guess. I wasn’t sure he would make it. I knew they’d stone him. I thought Stregobor might trap him, as well.”

Yennefer makes a small, sharp noise, and something shatters. Jaskier turns to look at her just to find her standing rigid, hand bleeding sluggishly, a glass in pieces at her feet.

“Yen?” he asks softly.

She takes a deep, shaky breath. “I’m fine,” she says after a moment. “Just – I’ll be back.”

The broken glass pieces disappear, and then she leaves the room, a little trail of blood from her hand following her.

“...what was that about?”

Jaskier turns back to Renfri. “She and Geralt had a fight,” he says. “It’s not really my story to tell, but she was working with Stregobor temporarily. She didn’t know about...well, she didn’t know about  _ you. _ ”

“About me?”

“That you were born under the Black Sun, that Stregobor was connected to Blaviken.”

“...so she was working with Stregobor, and Geralt what? Found out?”

Jaskier nods. “She wasn’t hiding it, but yes, basically. They are – or, were...well, there’s a whole lot that’s happened in thirty years. It would take a week to explain it all.”

Renfri hums. “Well, I don’t think we have a week, and I’m sure there’s plenty in there that I don’t care about. But,” she stands and walks to a little cupboard, pulling out a bottle. “I have at least a day, and fuck it – I was dead and now I’m not. We may as well get smashed in celebration, don’t you think?”

Jaskier laughs. Looking into Renfri’s eyes, he sees the same feral sparkle he’s seen in the mirror before, and suddenly a whole lot of things make so much more sense.

“Absolutely,” he agrees.

* * *

About a third of the way through the bottle, Yennefer returns, a bandage around her hand and in new clothes. She takes one look at the two of them, pressed side-to-side on the narrow bed and passing a bottle back and forth, and laughs.

“Give it here,” she says, sitting in front of them. Renfri hands it over obligingly, and they both giggle when Yennefer swallows at least another fourth all by herself before handing it back to Jaskier. “What are we getting drunk about?”

“We’re  _ celebrating, _ ” Renfri corrects. “I’m not dead!”

Yennefer snorts indelicately. “You haven’t  _ been  _ dead,” she says. “But fair enough.” She takes a more reserved drink when the bottle gets passed back to her.

“We’re also talking,” Jaskier says. “About – well.”

“Everything,” Renfri says. “So, you’re both fucking Geralt?”

Yennefer snorts again, and Jaskier chokes a little on his drink.

“Yes,” Yennefer answers, at the same time that Jaskier says, “It’s a bit more than that, but – ”

“She didn’t ask if we’re in love with him, bard,” Yennefer says. “She asked if we’re both fucking him. The answer is a simple  _ yes. _ ”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Well, obviously, but I feel like it’s maybe a  _ bit _ important that we’re in love with him, too.”

Yennefer shrugs. Renfri laughs.

“He’s easy to love,” she says. “I know we only knew each other for a day and a half and he kind of killed me, but – well. Weirder shit has happened to me in the past twelve hours. Falling in love with a sickeningly noble Witcher after a single conversation and a  _ surprisingly _ tender fuck in the woods probably isn’t that odd.”

“Definitely,” Yennefer says, raising the bottle as if in a toast. “A single conversation and a frantic fuck after a building collapsed on us, and I was done for.”

“At least you two got to fuck him first,” Jaskier laughs. “I think I was in love before I’d even spoken to him.”

“That sounds like you,” Yennefer nods. Jaskier sticks his tongue out at her and she just leans forward to pinch his cheek.

They spend the rest of the night drinking and talking, never staying on one topic for longer than a few minutes at a time. Jaskier thinks it’s the most fun he’s had in a good long while, and the more he gets to know Renfri, the more he understands Geralt, as odd as it is. Considering the knowing looks Yennefer keeps giving him, she’s in the same boat.

He wakes sometime in the late afternoon with a raging hangover, and only Yennefer is still in the bed with him. His shifting wakes her up, and she groans.

“Where’s Renfri?” he asks.

Yennefer’s eyes slit open and she looks around. “Dunno,” she mutters. Her eyes land back on him and widen, though. “Something’s pinned to your shirt,” she says.

Jaskier sits up slowly, then looks down at his shirt. There’s a slip of parchment pinned right over his heart. He unpins it carefully, then holds it up in the light. For a moment, he can’t make any sense of it, head pounding and word swimming, but eventually it comes into focus. 

_ Jaskier, Yennefer – I needed to go. Please don’t tell Geralt about me yet. I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. – Renfri _

“Huh.” Jaskier rubs one hand over his face and hands the note down to Yennefer, who scoffs when she reads it.

“She really is just like you,” she mutters, tossing the note to the side and standing. “It’s downright uncanny. Are you going to tell Geralt?”

“...no,” Jaskier decides. “Not right now, at least. Are you?”

Yennefer sighs. “No, I won’t either. I’ll keep an ear out, too, for anything that sounds like her. Or Shrike, as the case may be.”

“I will too,” Jaskier agrees. He watches Yennefer dig around in her never-ending pack for a moment, and when she comes back she has a fistful of some kind of herb.

“Chew it then spit it out,” she tells him, handing him half. “It’s awful, but it’s what I have for hangovers right now.”

“You really just plan ahead, don’t you?” Jaskier laughs, doing as he’s told. The herb is gross, tasting like mildew and copper, but it starts alleviating the pain almost immediately.

“I just know you,” Yennefer retorts. “I swear, every time we’re together I end up drunk.”

Jaskier shrugs, having to concede the point, then spits the chewed herb out onto the floor. “I’ve not heard a complaint, dear heart,” he teases.

Yennefer rolls her eyes, then spits, too. “Only because it wouldn’t change a damn thing, bard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blood: jaskier has to coat his lips in a concoction of blood and other unknown magic things; he doesn't consume it and it's not terribly detailed other than the mention of it being blood and gross.
> 
> non-con kiss: jaskier has to kiss renfri to wake her. she punches him for it. 
> 
> :D

**Author's Note:**

> :D


End file.
